


The Valentine's Day Deadline

by EmmyAngua



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Romantic Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, loved up Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyAngua/pseuds/EmmyAngua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The case Sherlock is working on is starting to drag, especially as he and John are following a strict ‘no relationship while working’ rule. When Lestrade points out that Valentine’s is fast approaching, Sherlock realises that what he really wants is to solve the case and spend Valentine’s day celebrating with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Valentine's Day Deadline

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the come_at_once LJ challenge (in which you are given a prompt and have twenty-four hours to complete and post a porny fic.) The prompt I was given was ‘the number thirteen’ and as I received this prompt on the 13th February it seemed the perfect excuse for Valentine’s Porn with (some) Plot. All embarrassing errors will be picked up in the morning when I'm not exhausted. 
> 
> It’s fluffy, it’s porny, and it’s not very serious. Enjoy!

It has been a long thirteen days for everyone.

 

By pure coincidence, the first murder happened on Sherlock’s birthday in January. He was unaware of this at the time, partly because Greg thought Sherlock would find it boring, and partly because Sherlock was ignoring everything in favour of a long-overdue consummation of his desires with John. When the two of them emerged from their bedroom and ventured back to something approaching normality, the case was already on the backburner, where it remained until the beginning of February, which was when it took a turn for the weird.

 

The facts of the case - no doubt shortly to be available on John’s blog - aren’t relevant. A murder. A strange message. Smugglers. A household-name haircare brand. All factors in a case that manages to hold Sherlock’s attention for an entire thirteen days, and incidentally the first test of Sherlock’s new relationship.

 

Because _everything_ goes on hold for the case. Not just the sex - John points out that he’s gone considerably longer than the length of their average cases without sex before - but the entire relationship.

 

“I can’t - I can’t handle a relationship on a case,” Sherlock explains. “When you’re there with me - safe, helping - I work better than ever, but you know that this is difficult for me. It takes effort. I can’t stop in the middle of an interrogation to wonder whether I have accidentally triggered an emotional difficulty between us.”  

 

John laughed like mad over the phrase ‘emotional difficulty’ and kissed him.

 

“You want us to be professional on cases: even at home. I get it.”

 

And - _wonderful John_ \- he did.

 

For the first time in his life, Sherlock feels like his world is balanced. In the time between cases he doesn’t feel the sharp, painful rush of boredom that normally hounds him. He has love. He has sex, and he’s gratified to discover that it’s not at all the repetitive act he feared but a constantly evolving, changing thing that he might never grow bored of experiencing with John.

 

Right now he has his work and he has John with him for it, and he seems to be enjoying this case as much as Sherlock. He doesn’t seem to be bothered that there is no time for kisses or touches, not when they have a puzzling, ever-changing case and a playful, clever murderer (with marvellous hair) to catch.

 

Naturally, a week into February, Lestrade has to come and blindly stamp over this perfectly balanced state of affairs. They are in a warehouse, searching for a particular crate. John is out of earshot.

 

“So… it’ll be your first Valentine’s day this year,” Lestrade says, shining the torch above their heads to light up the labels.

 

Sherlock frowns. “I’ve lived through quite a few of them actually.”

 

“Yeah but not as a - not with John. _With him._ ”

 

_Why hadn_ _’t he sent out a mass text informing Scotland Yard of this new ‘no-relationship-talk-on-case’ rule?_

“Lestrade, is this a heavy-handed way of making sure I have made plans for Valentine’s day? _Shine the torch to to left._ Have you somehow missed that we’re in the middle of a case?”

 

Lestrade shrugs and the beam of light wobbles. “Yeah, but it’s a week away. You’ll be done by then.”

 

“And when it is done I’ll consider the matter further.”

 

Lestrade sighs as Sherlock, spotting an intriguing crate label, snatches the torch and calls for John. “I suppose this sort of thing _is_ Valentine’s day for you two.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Annoyingly, Lestrade’s words are not so easily swept away. Suddenly, as they whizz around London, Sherlock starts to note the pink and red displays in every shop window and he catches John taking equal note of the Victoria’s Secret display with automatic appreciation.

 

He allows himself a ten minute break from the case on one of these drives to consider the matter further. John has crashed out in the seat next to him, head slumped onto Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

John has always celebrated Valentine’s day, if not with enthusiasm for the day itself, at least with the desire of the average male for the sex which is the usual outcome. Exceptions to this have only been the year of Irene Adler (when John had become bored of dating all of a sudden) and the first year Sherlock was gone. Sherlock is certain that if this case goes into Valentine’s day John will neither expect the day to be celebrated, nor celebrate it himself, but what if it doesn’t? Will he expect Sherlock to do something? Will he do something himself? Or will he assume that Sherlock will just look him uncomprehendingly if he tries _(innacurate, but he couldn’t fault John for his assumption)_?

 

Most importantly, what does he, _Sherlock,_ want?

 

Flowers hold no interest for him, nor does jewellery, chocolate boxes, or any of the usual trappings of the day. He wouldn’t mind a present, but the two of them are always awkward when it comes to exchanging gifts and he is always annoyed that he can never deduce what John has got him. They have dinner out on a regular basis, and Lestrade is right to say they’d both prefer being on a case to any other forced sort of date.

 

There’s the sex, which he’s quite looking forward to having again, but he’s sure that will be high on their agenda whatever happens… and he will admit a slight fluttering feeling in his stomach at the idea that for once the day could be something that actually is relevant to him. There are few celebratory days left that don’t seem in some way damaged by the things that have happened: Christmas with Magnussen and Irene Adler, New Year’s day on the plane, Bonfire night and Moran, and let’s not even think about the disaster that was the previous year’s Pancake Day.

 

It’s now late into the evening of the twelfth and, with two days to go, catching their killer seems a frustrating, near impossible task at the moment. His ten minute break is nearly over and so he pushes himself to a conclusion:

 

John enjoys Valentine’s Day for the sex and intimacy rather than the presents and enforced romance. Sherlock finds himself surprisingly willing to make an effort to enjoy the day, but he can’t allow them to return to their sexual, intimate state until the case runs its course.

 

He looks at his watch.

 

If he is to give John their first Valentine’s day, he needs to solve the case in twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes.

 

 

\---

 

 

 

Naturally, the case goes to hell.

 

John is kidnapped and found - thankfully unhurt - standing over an unconscious (and well built) barber in their suspect’s flat. There is no sign of the suspect and it’s now sixteen hours into Sherlock’s deadline.

 

Sherlock has rather badly broken his rule of _no-relationships-on-the-case_ to kiss John, make John’s supreme importance clear to the paramedic’s checking him over, and to kick a chair in frustration when Lestrade insisted he wasn’t allowed to hurt the unconscious kidnapper in any way shape or form.

 

He suspects he didn’t come out of it looking at cool and in-control as he would have liked. He reassures himself that he’s still new to this and next time he’ll be prepared for unexpected attacks of emotion.

 

Anyway, John has had a nap, has taken his kidnapping in his stride, and is happy to be back being ordered around by Sherlock. He’s not doing a very good job of hiding his amusement at Sherlock’s emotion-fuelled tantrum, but is at least making an effort.

 

The flat leads them to a tanning bed saleroom which, if they can observe the deliveries will tie up the whole thing. It means some minor breaking and entering but they ditch Lestrade and are soon past the shoddy locks on the back door and the alarm is easily switched off.

 

The delivery is due at 9pm, if the code in the flat it to be believed. They need to hide.

 

“How can this place not even have a cupboard!?” John hisses as they fail to find anywhere two grown men could hide that wouldn’t be spotted by even a half competent criminal.

 

That is unless you count…

 

As one, their eyes fall on a large sunbed display. It’s the sort that folds down over the person in a way that reminds Sherlock unpleasantly of a grilling machine.

 

But it’s facing away from the door and if they were to both lay down on it and fold it over themselves they might not be spotted. It won’t be switched on, it will just be cramped and uncomfortable. They catch each other’s eye and start to chuckle.

 

“Maybe we _should_ switch it on,” John snorts. “You could do with a bit of colour.”

 

Sherlock wants to respond that he knows perfectly well that John likes his pale skin. He wants to tease John over how good _he_ looks with a tan... but he’s very much aware that they are about to be pressed against each other for an indefinite amount of time and - after thirteen days without intimacy - John’s body is going to react despite itself. Sherlock’s rather worried his own might betray him as well.

 

They cannot get caught. Getting caught would lead to this case dragging out even further. He needs to focus. He needs to solve this by midnight.

 

Inside the tanning bed is as horribly uncomfortable as predicted. John is laying on his back, Sherlock on top. His head is tucked into John’s neck and John’s thigh is slotted between his own which is making his treacherous cock sit up and take notice. They’ve barely writhed around in the dark for a minute, settling the top over them and trying to hide themselves as much as possible, before John’s erection is pressing into Sherlock’s stomach and they are both panting.

 

He’s about to say that they need to be quiet when there’s a sudden voice and the main lights are switched on. The delivery of smuggled goods has arrived. They force themselves to be still, breathing shallowly and straining to hear every word being said.

_But oh, it would be so easy after all this time to press his lips against John_ _’s neck and just to grind against him…_

_It_ _’s nearly ten. Two hours until midnight. He just has to hold on a little longer…_

 

And then one if the goons says the code word, the one Sherlock has been waiting to hear, and everything slots into place. They wait for a painful thirty minutes until the boxes are stacked, the men are gone, and they can jump out of the tanning bed and breathe properly once more.

 

“Text Lestrade,” he says to John as they both carefully refuse to meet each other’s eyes. “It’s vital we get to St Barts.”

 

John nods and dutifully takes out his phone. Sherlock breathes deeply and wills his throbbing body to wait just a little bit more.

 

 

\---

 

 

It’s eleven thirty.

 

They are in a random empty office at St Barts, which wasn’t empty until Sherlock shooed the nurse out of it and ushered John and Lestrade inside. He’s talking at breakneck speed trying to unravel the events of the last thirteen days for the benefit of Lestrade. Every question is an irritating delay and Lestrade seems to have a never ending supply of them.

 

Finally - _finally_ \- they get to the important point.

 

“So our killer is at a hotel in Knightsbridge right now?”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes in frustration. “YES! What are you waiting for?!”

 

Lestrade frowns. “Why was it so vital to talk here?”

 

“And did we need to kick that nurse out of her own office?” John adds.

 

“Yes it was,” Sherlock says impatiently. “And I never said it was vital for _you_ to be here Lestrade, I said it was vital for John and I to be here. Go! Arrest your killer! Earn your brownie points!”

 

“You don’t want to be there?” Lestrade asks.

 

“Why would I? The case is solved, I’m not interested in loose ends.”

 

He looks at the clock. Eleven forty-five.

 

“Then why is it vital for us to be here?” John asks. “Is it relevant to the case?”

 

“Were you just listening to what I said? The case is over. You-” he points at Lestrade “-go and arrest the naughty man. You - John - come with me.”

 

He leaves the office - blanks the squawking nurse - and strides towards the morgue.

 

 

\---

 

 

“Sherlock, where are we going-”

 

John stops short. Sherlock has led them to the laboratory just off the morgue: familiar to them both. It’s where they met, and though Sherlock has used it since, it is for him - and he hopes for John - a place forever associated with that moment.

 

“It’s where we met,” John says fondly, although he sounds slightly unsure over how fond he’s currently allowed to be. He frowns. “Is it just me or is it even more scarily modern now?”

 

“It’s been over six years,” Sherlock says softly. “Look at the clock.”

 

John leans around to look at the clock behind Sherlock. “It’s stopped. It’s says it’s six twenty.”

 

Sherlock sighs. Is it _so much_ to ask that the world complies with his dramatic narrative?

 

“Well if it was _accurate_ it would say that it’s midnight. On Valentine’s day.”

 

John, clearly a much faster thinker when faced with the prospect of sex, catches on quickly. “And the case is closed…”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker meaningfully to the door. “It’s the middle of the night, the only staff members around aren’t going to be using the labs, there aren’t any cameras in here, and most importantly _that door locks_. So how about we take this opportunity to for me to do everything I wanted to do to you six years ago and for you to do everything I wanted you to do to me…”

 

Suddenly Sherlock is nervous. Their relationship is barely a month old and while he may have had thoughts before, he’s by no means an experienced lover. Seduction makes you surprisingly vulnerable, he finds. You have to be sure that you aren’t misreading the situation, and with everyone else he’d be certain, but he can’t even figure out John’s _Christmas presents_ , let alone his _feelings_ …

 

But in purely observational terms, it looks positive. John is showing physical signs of arousal and there’s a smile quirking across his lips, repressed by his own attempt to be seductive in return.

 

“What about the things _I_ wanted to do you back then?”

 

Sherlock smirks. He keeps his voice deep in the way he knows John likes. “Well doctor, I was assuming there would be some crossover with our plans.”

 

“Oh god…”

 

That ends the discussion. John - ever a man of action - moves quickly to the door and with a turn of the lock they are free from the risk of being disturbed. He is assuming that Sherlock - who enjoys being manhandled and generally ordered around during sex - wants him to take the lead on this and he’s certainly right. It tallies up rather nicely with those initial fantasies Sherlock had once had. John, a soldier, strong - despite the leg - commanding… he’d been more attracted than interested in the man at first. His sexual attractions to people were rare enough, and he didn’t want to spoil it by John turning out to be _boring_. People nearly always turned out to be boring. How wrong he’d been about John, how immediately wrong.

 

John strides over to Sherlock and kisses him, weeks of pent up desire pouring out of them both. It’s hot and rough, tongues battling and their breathing heavy. If this is what the kissing is like Sherlock is worried that someone will come and disturb them during the sex because they’ll be making an alarming amount of noise.

 

His hands grip every part of John he can and John’s hands slide under Sherlock’s coat and down his back to squeeze his arse. Their erections grind together and they pant into the kiss.

 

Thankfully John is still in control and pulls away. “If we don’t stop this we’re going to come before we actually do anything.” He steps back a little but presses a featherlike kiss to Sherlock’s neck “What do you want me to do first?”

 

Sherlock wastes no time. “I want you to lean against that counter while I drop to me knees and suck you off.”

 

“Mm… at the moment that is not going to take long. Go on.”

 

“Then I want you to slam me against the counter and fuck me hard.”

 

He jerks his head to the counter that they’re standing next to, the place that he was sitting at when John first came into the room all those years ago.

 

They glance to the door which, despite being locked does have a small pane of glass in it. To fuck Sherlock at that counter will make them very visible to any passer-by and Sherlock knows that John enjoys a risk, it makes it all the sweeter.

 

Wordlessly John goes to switch off the light, giving them just the light from the tiny pane of glass to see by and leaving them essentially invisible to the outside corridor. Sherlock watches John’s slight swagger, a testament to how uncomfortably hard he is, and he wants nothing more than to hurry him over so that he can finally touch him.

 

They shed their coats, tossing them over the stools, and meet for another kiss against the counter. Sherlock is pressed against it at first but with one swift movement he spins and grids his erection against John’s.

 

Wordlessly he drops to his knees and cups at the bulge between John’s legs, his palm massaging gently and dragging a needy moan from John. He waits for a long moment until the tension is too much and he can only hear John’s desperate panting in the quiet, before moving to free John from his pants. He can only barely make out the outline of John’s cock in the dark even with his excellent vision, but he knows it well by now, knows it’s length and thickness and right now he wants it desperately. But first he wants to make John shudder and whimper and know just how much he’s wanted, how much Sherlock adores him.

 

He licks up the length of it - a gasp from John - and circles the head with his tongue. He knows John likes to see him while he’s doing this but he hopes John can make it out. He presses the tip of his tongue firmly against the underside of the shaft and sweeps down and then up once more, a tease, and then he takes John in, as much as he can in one go, working fast and with an expert tongue. He knows what John likes. Knows what makes his shudder and scream.

 

He sucks, strokes, plays with John’s balls, and takes him as deeply as he can. He works him hard and John is moaning loudly.

 

“She- Sherlock - stop - “

 

Sherlock does, reluctantly.

 

“I’m not going to last if you carry on that that - and believe me I want to fuck you so very hard against that counter. Stand up.“

 

It’s not an outright order, but it’s still a command and when John gives a command Sherlock’s blood sings. He is on his feet at once and this time he’s the one spun around so that it’s _his_ back against the counter. John is efficient even in the dark, he unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and tugs it open, giving him access to Sherlock’s bare chest.

 

At first it’s just gentle fingers exploring his chest, stroking over his stomach, and then John playfully tweaks and Sherlock’s nipples, making him gasp. Another tweak and this time John kisses at his neck too. His fingers trail over Sherlock’s skin and the kisses become nips and bites and the hot hands against Sherlock’s flesh make him dizzy with want.

 

John nips at Sherlock’s nipple, circles it with his tongue, and nips again, cupping Sherlock through his pants and he does. Then he repeats the same movement on Sherlock’s other nipple, knowing how sensitive they are. As he does so there’s a moment of glorious relief as John opens Sherlock’s trousers and releases his cock and it almost throbs as John’s hand immediately engulfs it, stroking firmly.

 

“What about lube?”” John asks, not doubting Sherlock’s forethought for a second.

 

Sherlock keeps John waiting for a moment, reaching over to stroke John’s cock while John works his own, enjoying their erections being so close and the intimacy of the movement. Sherlock can just make out the way John’s eyes flutter closed at the movement before he snaps out of it.

 

He moves out of Sherlock’s grasp and physically spins his, slamming him against the counter so he’s bent over. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a forceful reminder of John’s strength and coincidentally the exact position Sherlock wants to be in. He writhes as John holds him in place and grinds his cock against Sherlock’s still clothed arse.

 

“Sherlock, the lube…”

 

“Hmm….? Trouser pocket.”

 

John’s hand - all too used to fishing about in Sherlock’s pockets - finds the packet of lube at once and then he clearly sees no more need for the trousers sitting low on Sherlock’s hips. He yanks them down and drops to his knees, giving Sherlock barely time to register the movement before his hands are on Sherlock’s arse and his tongue is sweeping over his hole.

 

“Oh - oh god,”

 

John’s tongue is amazing, Sherlock will never ever get sick of this, had never thought in a million years that this was something John would do for him, yet he’s shown a surprising eagerness to do so. Sherlock has wondered if it’s anything to do with his enjoyment on going down on women but - _ah - oh_ \- now is really not the time for that thought.

 

John’s tongue circles again, harder this time, and he reaches around to take Sherlock’s cock in his hand just as his tongue opens him a little.

 

It takes a while, John is always incredibly careful about opening Sherlock up - first his tongue, then one torturous finger that always seems both too much and not enough at the same time. The second finger is always the point where discomfort flickers into intense pleasure and the moment John finds that sweet spot, Sherlock starts to cry out. By the third finger he is begging for John’s cock.

 

John seems to take even longer this time. Perhaps it’s the door, Sherlock thinks as John tortures him with two fingers, perhaps the risk of being seen and heard makes him bolder… _oh god, oh god_ , Sherlock wonders if he’ll even make it to the third finger this time.

 

“I can’t - “ he whines, but John merely pushes his fingers deeper.

 

“You always say that. You always last. You have complete control over your body. And believe me I need this time to prepare myself. If I was to fuck you now I’d last seconds…

 

At that he slides in the third finger and Sherlock - managing to stifle a yell just in time - thrashes wildly and sends something expensive and highly technological smashing to the floor.

 

They freeze, waiting for someone to come rushing in, but no one does and after a short while John merely says ‘oops’ and carries on. He’ll no doubt feel guilty tomorrow but right now he’s fucking Sherlock against the counter he first saw him sitting at and Sherlock is glad that John doesn’t give a fuck about an expensive lab equipment.

 

Three fingers, it’s torture. Sherlock writhes and begs and behaves as provocatively, as wantonly as he can: anything to get John inside him.

 

At last the fingers withdraw and he feels John’s cock at his entrance.

 

“You are amazing,” John murmurs. “Gorgeous.”

 

Sherlock feels him enter: he’s so ready for him, so desperate for the delicious difference in sensation between John’s fingers and cock. John is still teasingly slow, working him open just a fraction more, but when he’s fully inside him it feels so good that Sherlock wants to weep. _John is inside him._ John is inside him, hard, wanting him. His hands are stroking Sherlock’s back, he’s whispering lovely things to him, and he’s about to fuck him…

 

As if on command John pulls out an inch before sliding back in, checking that Sherlock is comfortable, before withdrawing almost fully and plunging back in. This time there’s no equipment to smash up and Sherlock makes a noise that’s half moan half stifled yell. Again John withdraws and soon he’s fucking Sherlock harder, so hard that all there is is the noise of their skin slapping against each other and there pants and cries. It’s a brutal pace and it’s everything Sherlock wants. His cock is rock hard and he wonders if he can come without even being touched, just from this fucking.

 

John’s movements are jerky, he’d nearing the end, he pounds hard and then with a sharp movement he cries and stills, his cock pulsing inside Sherlock, coming inside him and leaving Sherlock trembling at the sensation, and almost keening as he pulls out.

 

“God… that was...” Is all John can manage to say. “Turn around.”

 

Sherlock manages to push himself upright and turn. His tousers and pants are round his ankles, his cock is jutting out desperately, he’s filled with John’s come, and his shirt is still half on. He must look ridiculous in the light of day, but it’s still dark and they’re still in the moment.

 

“God,” John says again, only this time he reaches down to take hold of Sherlock’s poor ignored dick.

 

He leans up and pulls Sherlock down for the gentlest of kisses and strokes him firmly as he does. It takes seconds for Sherlock to whimper into the kiss and come, hot and spurting, in John’s hand.

 

For a long moment they just breathe into each other’s embrace and then, wordlessly they sink to the floor, legs too weak to hold either of them upright a moment longer.

 

 

\---

 

 

“Thank god Mike wasn’t here this time,” is all John manages to say, when they’ve recovered enough to speak.

 

They’re high on endorphins, adrenalin and from the lack of food and sleep. They both find it suddenly hilarious and laugh like children.

 

This brings them back to normality and they pull their trousers back up and to button up their shirts enough to be vaguely decent if someone comes in. Sherlock wants a shower, but will have to wait until they get home.

 

They have got most of the day left, after all.

 

“Happy Valentine’s day,” he says, failing to hide a yawn.

 

“You’ve just solved a case after thirteen days of work. I think you’ll be sleeping through most of it,” John points out gently.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. His body wouldn’t dare betray him like that. “A few hours perhaps,” he says. “Well. Maybe half of it.”

 

“That reminds me,” John manages to force himself back to his feet. He goes to switch on the light - wincing at the remains of what turns out to be an incredibly valuable microscope - and fishes about in his jacket pocket for something.

 

He returns to his position on the floor, slumped next to Sherlock, and presents him with a tiny package. It’s a single heart shaped chocolate in foil.

 

“Don’t get too excited. Some company was giving them out for free as I passed and I didn’t think we’d be finished in time for Valentine’s day anyway.” He yawns. “To be honest I was hoping I could trick you into eating it without you noticing to try and get some calories in you. But Happy Valentine’s Sherlock. Because I do love you.”

 

Ever so gently Sherlock unwraps the foil and pops the chocolate into his mouth. He leans forward to kiss John, just enough for them to share the sweetness of the chocolate before he finishes.

 

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Happy Valentine’s day.”

 

 

 


End file.
